


the science of belief

by ichidou



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichidou/pseuds/ichidou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash can't bring Epsilon back to the Chairman on his own, but the only help he has is from a man far different from the one he remembers.  A look at the relationship between Wash and the Meta, set throughout S6/7/8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the science of belief

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from Reeberry: "i'm not calling you a liar/just don't lie to me/i'm not calling you a thief/just don't steal from me/i'm not calling you a ghost/stop haunting me"

_yeah, it's him. it's the meta._

He hadn't wanted to believe it -- maybe he'd just forced himself not to, believing it was just part of the fever dream, just another thing he could write off as being _crazy agent washington, certified article twelve_. He'd put it at the back of his mind, told himself they were chasing a nameless, faceless enemy, that he didn't know the man beneath.

It was always hardest to lie to himself.

Church ( and he can't pretend, with him, not when he remembers everything he isn't ) won't stop yelling at Caboose, and the Reds won't stop bickering, but Wash doesn't really hear anything past the low hum of the engine and the wind whipping past and the gravelly voice that only exists in his memories.

 

The thing about Maine had always been that the moment he stepped into a room, there was no ignoring him. Some people, like CT, could melt into a corner without a second thought, but Maine had that gravity to him that didn't just come from the height and the muscles and the looks he gave.

It was the sense that those around him were no more than ants staring up a giant, one who could reach out and snap them all in half without a second thought.

Wash stares at the faceless visor and the man beneath, at the easy way he hefts the bladed weapon in his hands over his back, and doesn't have to look at the Chairman to know he's flinching back from the man in the corner of the room, no matter how sure he is that armor lock would hold him back in an instant.

 _So this is what they're giving me_ , Wash thinks.

"I'll take him."

 

Wash doesn't expect him to speak. He knows better, of course, after all this time, but that doesn't keep him from that nagging feeling that he should fill the silence with careless banter the way they used to, no matter how little Maine ever said.

"I'm going to need all the time I can get to search the canyon. Just keep them occupied as long as you can, got it?"

The visor turns to him, and for an instant, Wash lets the fear reach out from where he's pushed it back. He feels every inch of his presence, the heavy armor, the power coiled up and waiting to strike, and when the weapon rises, Wash expects it to go through his neck.

And then the Meta draws back and heads down the hill with a growl that Wash doesn't need to think to understand.

_Shut up._

He can do that.

 

It's not until afterwards, when Simmons has stopped whining (or at least started doing it _quieter_ ) that Wash realizes he's being watched.

"What?"

The Meta looks at him, and it's funny, Wash thinks, how his goddamn perfect memory extends even to this. He knows every tilt of his visor, every shift of his shoulders, just as well as he always has, no matter how much time's passed in between.

He asks again anyway. "What?"

For a moment, there's that fear again, that flicker of panic shooting up his spine just for the way the Meta's hand closes over the handle of his blade, and it takes him a moment to recognize that the little chuffed sound he lets out is a _laugh_ , low and rumbling and more familiar than any snarl he's heard ever since they got out.

_Never thought you'd have the balls for that._

"Yeah, well." Wash snorts and looks away, eyes flicking over the blood-splattered armor on the ground. "You'd be surprised."

 

Wash can't help but wonder, in the silence of the desert -- what few stretches there are between Doc's babbling, anyway. He wonders if he'd recognize the face behind the helmet, or if it'd be as unfamiliar as his own, changed past anything he claims to remember.

He's little more than base emotion, now, an amalgamation of what the Alpha's fragments wanted to be trapped in the recesses of a mind that could never put them back together, and Wash watches him take it out on the aliens' dead bodies and wonders what Maine would say to see himself now.

"Hey, Meta."

The visor lifts, the blade lowers, and the Meta turns to him, but Wash knows it's not obedience.

A growl.

_What?_

"--Never mind."

 

The mistake, Wash realizes, was losing count of the number of times the Meta had spared his life.

He's thought about it time and time again, wondering if the man remembered what his mind could not, if the soldier he'd considered a partner back in Freelancer still cared about the rapport they'd had. He'd let himself think that maybe, just maybe, Maine was still in there, that he cared whether or not Wash lived or died, that he wasn't the only one left.

He'd always been a naive fool.

There's no thought involved, not like this. He doesn't have to remember the matches in the training room or the ones long after, in their games of cat and mouse. Wash fights for his life and realizes, deep down, that he'd never really considered what it would be like to lose it.

That he would, for this.

The shot explodes on his chest, the sheer force of the pain overriding the healing unit he's already got running at full power for a good few seconds, and even though he could still stand, could still fight to the last breath like the good little soldier he's always claimed to be, there's no fight left in him.

He wonders if he'll be spared this time.

 

The Chairman will retrieve the body. Of that, Wash has no doubt. The man's put far too much into this investigation, into _everything_ , to just let that go to chance. He'll need it, he knows, to make up for the silent unit sitting in the snow, far past any chance of restoration.

Maybe it'll be enough. Wash doesn't know.

In some ways, he wishes he could have done it himself, and yet for all that so much of what he's done has been out of revenge, he can't bring himself to think it would have helped, in this. He'd never hated the Meta, only what had made him, and even if the man himself had forgotten who he was, Wash never had.

He's used to having to remember for the dead.

"Hey, hurry up, we gotta get outta here before they suspect anything!" Tucker calls, and Wash turns away from the cliff, shoving his rifle over his back.

"I'll be right there."


End file.
